


Espada Origins

by HighlyOpinionatedNerd



Category: Bleach
Genre: all totally my headcanons, every chapter is a different character, so I decided to write about it, there's nothing in canon about their human lives, unfortunately left unfinished
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-26
Updated: 2017-09-17
Packaged: 2018-11-05 00:49:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 12,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11002485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HighlyOpinionatedNerd/pseuds/HighlyOpinionatedNerd
Summary: What were the members of the Espada like, before they met in Las Noches? Before they even became Hollows?What were their lives like, when they were human?





	1. Destruction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grimmjow

All Hollows were once human. They were the ghosts of humans whose souls were tethered to the Earth after their deaths by regret, hatred, and obsession. They were the ones who stayed behind, turned away from Soul Society, and tried to continue living past their times. They were the ones who eventually gave in to the hunger, became twisted and empty, donned the white bone masks. They forgot. But they were all humans, once.

 

Second Lieutenant Yami Takahashi lay on his bunk, smoking a cigarette, staring at the ceiling. It was raining outside, and if he stared hard enough he thought he might be able to see the imprints of the raindrops above him.

He was bored out of his mind, and there was nothing to do. Not even any chores. He found himself almost wishing for an enemy attack. Anything to break through this daily routine of sitting around doing nothing, waiting for orders. 

Enlisting in the army had seemed like such a good idea at the time. As a kid, he’d grown up fighting all the time. And he was good at it. Others fought over turf rights, or for authority, or simply to defend themselves. Yami fought mostly for the thrill, the adrenaline rush that came from defeating someone bigger and stronger than you. 

He’d thought that, in the army, he’d simply get to point a gun at people, and get paid for it. And what better way could he wish for to finally get away from his hometown? When the war started, it had only made him more eager to sign up. Not that he’d ever admit it, but he had dreamed that one day he might be hailed as a war hero.

That wasn’t looking too likely now. Yami had been stuck at this lousy base ever since he’d finished basic training. His commanding officer was a good-for-nothing loser, and his bunkmate was a prissy little bitch. The food was horrible, they were required to wear uncomfortable uniforms all the time, and he had never even come close to actual combat. 

Guard the bay, his superiors said.It’s a very important mission, they said. Guard the bay from what, he’d like to know. Like the Americans would ever be crazy enough to sail right up to shore with all the base’s long-range weapons pointed straight at them. 

He angrily blew out a smoky breath. If they actually were that crazy (and who knew, honestly, when it came to the Americans) he still probably wouldn’t get the opportunity to shoot at them. He wasn’t assigned to any of that heavy duty weaponry. In fact, they wouldn’t let him near any of it. 

He’d chosen the army over the navy because he hadn’t liked the idea of being cooped up on a ship for long. Ironically enough. 

His frustrated thoughts were interrupted by the sound of voices coming down the hall. He turned his head as the door opened, even though he already knew who it was.

The voices belonged to his bunkmate, Toshino, and a few other of their fellow soldiers. They quieted quickly when they saw him, and one of them cleared his throat awkwardly.

“Ah, Yami,” Toshino said with forced cheerfulness, “we didn’t think you’d be in.”

Yami’s strong desire not to have any interactions with the other men momentarily warred with his equally strong desire not to give them the satisfaction of just getting up and leaving. Stubbornness eventually won out, and he raised a hand in casual greeting.

“‘Sup,” he said, and they nervously entered the room. Yami continued to smoke his cigarette, and after a moment they seemed to collectively decide to ignore him and continue their conversation.

“Yeah, I think I’ll just go back home,” one of them said. Yami didn’t know his name, and didn’t care either. “My family runs a restaurant, so maybe I’ll just end up working there. I wouldn’t mind that, I guess.”

“I want to go to Tokyo, and explore a big city properly for once.”

“Well, I’m going to stay in the army. While you guys are out working small time jobs, I’ll be getting promoted to admiral!”

There was an outbreak of laughter at the last man’s statement. Yami finished his cigarette, and sat up so he could grind the stub into the ashtray beside him. 

“Um, what are you going to do after the war ends, Yami?” Toshino asked tentatively.

Yami sighed and rolled his eyes. Toshino was always doing things like that, trying to be all buddy-buddy with him. Yami was starting to think he’d never learn.

Still, it was kind of an interesting question. He’d be lying if he said he hadn’t thought about it. But he’d never actually decided on anything.

“I’m gonna go far away. I’m gonna dye my hair and change my name, and start over,” he said aloud.

“O-oh, that’s nice,” Toshino said. None of the others said anything at all. They were avoiding even looking at him. 

Yami decided that he’d had enough. Stubbornness could only get him through so much of this. He swung his legs over the side of his bunk and vaulted down to the floor, startling one or two of Toshino’s friends. 

“Think I’ll go out,” he muttered, grabbing his hat and walking away, closing the door a little too hard behind him. 

Once in the hallway, he attempted to tame his unruly hair enough to put on the hat. His feet directed their steps towards the base’s mess hall almost unconsciously. Yami spent a lot of time there, pretending to be busy, avoiding contact with anyone and everyone.

He’d been at this base for almost two years now. Why didn’t he feel more at home here by now?

No, wait, putting it that way made it sound like he wanted to be like Toshino. No way in hell he wanted to be anything like that dumbass. 

The very thought made him grimace as he entered the mess hall. It wasn’t very busy this time of day, which was just the way he liked it. He walked over to one of the tables near the back and sat down. There was a stack of magazines on the table as usual; he grabbed one and opened it to a random page, trying to give the appearance of actually caring what the article said while not actually reading a word of it. 

The page in front of him was displaying a picture of a smiling couple holding hands. They looked happy. Yami frowned at them accusingly.

What he had wanted was for his time in the army to be better than his life before he had enlisted. What he had gotten was different, but not better. He’d merely traded the drunken, angry uncle he lived with for angry superiors that hated him just as much. The edgy looks of the other kids on the streets sizing him up for a fight had been replaced with the wary, condescending looks of his fellow soldiers. 

He flipped past the happy couple. The next page was some kind of car advertisement, accompanied by an image of a family in a shiny new car taking a roadtrip through a picturesque rural landscape. 

He’d made it out of the dump he’d grown up in. He’d done it, he’d escaped from the town that had always told him he would never make anything of himself. Why hadn’t that been enough?

The next page was a block of text. The headline announced that it was an informative article about a local school.

He was unsatisfied. With everything. His surroundings had changed, but he hadn’t. He pushed everyone away, lashed out at them until they feared or hated him. The only one to blame for his not fitting in was himself.

Another advertisement, this one for an insurance company. Their logo was in the shape of a little black cat walking confidently, tail crooked.

He hadn’t changed. What if, when the war really was over, and he moved away again, he still couldn’t change? What if he never did make anything of himself? 

He slammed the magazine closed. It was no use. He’d had this conversation with himself countless times, and it always left him feeling incredibly frustrated. 

Enlisting in the army had seemed like such a good idea at the time. There was a goddamn war on. He should have been fighting, but instead he was sitting here grappling with his intrusive thoughts, hating everyone around him a little more every day. 

 

The next morning was when the sirens came. Everyone immediately dropped what they were doing and grabbed their weapons. The higher-ups barked out orders, the troops shouted in confusion and fear as they ran about, and the sirens continued to scream out above it all. 

Yami didn’t know what to feel. Excited at the prospect of actual combat? Afraid of what might happen? Wonder that the Americans had the guts to attack them so blatantly? His heart pounded in his ears almost as loud as the sirens.

But when he finally made it outside with the other members of his unit, clutching his rifle to his chest, there were no enemies to be found. They stood there for at least ten minutes, and though the sirens continued to sound, no orders came.

Then something happened. They saw it first, and heard it a split second later; a massive explosion, as bright as the sun, louder than anything any of them had ever heard. 

Around Yami, men broke ranks, screaming, running in a futile effort to survive the incoming shock wave from the explosion. He didn’t move. It struck him that he would never know what he would do with his life after the war, and he was furious. 

Then the destruction was upon him, and all his thoughts were lost in the roar, in the blinding light, the choking dust, and the pain.

 

He was alone. He’d been alone for a long time. It had been weeks...months?....since he’d seen anyone else. Hiroshima was dead, and he was there, alone. He no longer knew why, but he didn’t care either. He couldn’t stay any longer. He began to walk, slowly putting one foot….paw?...in front of the other. The debris on the ruined street didn’t bother him anymore. He couldn’t stay. He didn’t really know who he was, but he knew that much. 

He was hungry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is by no means historically accurate (I'm sorry, but I have a terrible habit of erring on the side of the dramatic). All names and locations are completely fictitious, and used as such. Hope you liked it!


	2. Sacrifice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halibel

Humans make mistakes. They can spend their whole lives trying to make up for their mistakes, but they can never forget. That is the price for living: to remember. Once humans die, they have a choice. To move on, accepting the mistakes as part of themselves, or to forget. But there is also a price for the forgetting: to accept the hunger of one who is Hollow.

 

Maria Sola was late, but she did not run. She didn’t even walk quickly, lest she draw unwanted attention to herself. Instead she tried her best to look calm and avoid making eye contact with any of the people on the street. 

She walked and walked, past all the shops and the roadside stalls and the houses. She walked until she had left all the buildings and all the people behind her. When she reached a bend in the path, she risked a glance over her shoulder. Thankfully, there was no one watching her. 

Now she broke into a run, racing the sunset, clutching the straps of her backpack tightly. This far from the center of town the pavement was cracked and worn, and the vegetation on the side of the road grew untamed. 

If you didn’t know where to look, you might never have seen the little shack, half-obscured as it was by the leafy trees. Maria dashed towards it in the last rays of the day’s sunlight, reflexively ducking under the low-hanging branches in her path. She didn’t stop running until she’d closed and double-locked the front door behind her.

“I’m home,” she called, kicking off her shoes and slinging the backpack off one shoulder. 

The sound of running footsteps on the dusty floor told her that her call had been heard. A moment later, several laughing children entered the room, each intent on hugging her first. Maria laughed too, holding the precious backpack high above their heads so it wouldn’t be caught in the mele. 

“Alright, alright, that’s enough please.” She had to shout to make herself heard over the clamour. “All of you need to go wash your hands for dinner. Wait, where’s Carlos? He’s not still out this late, is he?”

“He’s just on the back porch,” answered Rosa, the eldest of the children. 

“Alright, I’ll go get him. Go on now, the rest of you, go get washed up.”

They scampered to obey. Maria crossed the large, central room and opened the back door, sticking her head outside. The little boy was there, sitting on the edge of the porch, staring intently at the open book on his lap. 

“Carlito,” she said, “what’s going on out here?”

He jumped, startled by the sound of her voice. But when he looked up and saw Maria, his face broke into a huge smile. “Maria!” he exclaimed happily scrambling to gather up his things and rush to her. 

“It’s getting too dark to be reading outside, Carlito. Plus, you know you’re not supposed to stay out past sunset, right?”

He shrugged, still grinning ear to ear. “I got distracted. This book is so good!”

Maria sighed, knowing full well that she was incapable of staying mad at him. “Ok, just don’t do it again. Come on inside now and wash up for dinner.”

“Ok!” he hurried past her down the hall to join the other kids. Maria shook her head, watching him go. 

About a year ago, her sister had died of a sudden sickness, leaving three young daughters in Maria’s care. The guerillas had come only a month after that, claiming total control of the town and killing anyone who tried to stand in their way. Maria hadn’t been able to resist the pitiful looks on the small faces of the newly-orphaned children, and suddenly found herself the sole guardian of no fewer than seven kids, ranging in age from six to ten. 

Dinner was always a rowdy affair these days, with so many people around. They didn’t have a table, so they ate on the floor of the main room, sitting in a circle. Maria opened the backpack and handed out the food; rolls, apples, and a handful of rice for everyone, tonight. 

The kids ate everything she put in front of them, as usual. Tonight she was extra grateful for that.

This close to the coast, no coffee crops grew. Their little town was poor, but they had always gotten by well enough. Until the wars had reach them, at least. 

 

Nowadays the townsfolk were beaten-down and wary. There was less cheerful talk on the streets, and more people looking over their shoulders in fear. The guerilla soldiers who had taken over were violent thugs, and the surest way to survive was not to do anything to offend them. These days, everyone tread so lightly that Maria wondered if she was the only one who dared to breathe. 

Her job waitressing hadn’t been nearly as profitable this past year, and it seemed to be getting worse all the time. She cut as many corners as she could, but it was never enough. She was barely staying afloat trying to provide for all these kids, and she was running out of things that could be sacrificed. 

Then one of her nieces had gotten sick, and she’d had to spend most of their food rations for the week on medicine. Earlier that day, finding herself flat broke with seven hungry children at home, she’d resolved to do something incredibly stupid:

She’d stolen from the soldiers.

It had gone down smoother than she had ever expected. Her heart had beat so loud the whole time, she had been sure that someone would hear it. But no one had caught her, and she’d made it home with no trouble. 

Even now she worried that their door might be kicked in at any moment by an angry man with a gun. But it seemed that her gamble had paid off, and the soldiers really hadn’t noticed a few missing apples. 

The children chattered happily as they ate, telling each other stories and playfully swiping each other’s apple cores. 

Eventually Maria caught herself beginning to yawn, tired as she was from her long day at work. 

“Alright guys,” she said, “let’s start getting ready for bed now, ok?”

“What? No, it’s not time yet!”

“Just a little longer...please, Maria?”

“We don’t want to go to bed. We want a story!”

She sighed. “If I tell you a story, will you go to bed after?”

A chorus of fervent agreements greeted this suggestion, and she rolled her eyes. Funny how, even after all this time, they still managed to manipulate her like this.

Well, it was only a story. 

She told them stories from her past often. The memories of when her parents and her older sister had been alive were somehow less painful once she shared them. She told them about her father, who had liked to sing old folk tunes while he worked. She told them about her mother, who had burned nearly everything she tried to cook. She told them about her sister Sofia, nine years older than her, the mother Maria’s nieces had hardly known. 

But the stories she liked to tell best were about the ocean. Maria and her family had traveled out to the beach every other weekend when Maria was younger. She loved everything about the ocean; the wet sand under her feet, the warm water on her face, the glittering seashells, the occasional glimpse of a sleek, silvery fish. 

“Maria, will you take us to the ocean sometime?” Carlos asked her when the story was over.

She blinked, startled by the sudden question. Then she smiled. “I’d love to, Carlito. Maybe someday, when I can afford to take a day off from work...we’ll see.”

The story seemed to have done the trick. The kids were starting to yawn and rub their eyes, and Maria knew it really was time to get them to bed.

She made sure each one of them was tucked safely in before collapsing, exhausted, onto the couch where she slept. Her last thought before falling asleep was of how nice it would be if she could bring everyone out to see the ocean on the weekend, just like when she was a child. 

Like a real family.

 

Days went by, and Maria told herself that she could get by without having to resort to stealing again. But things didn’t get any better at work, and eventually she was left with no choice. 

She snuck into the soldiers’ camp a few times more, taking only as much as they needed. She began to learn their routine, and each time she was a little more confident. It was always a blow to her pride, always nerve-wracking and utterly terrifying, but it was a little easier each time.

Perhaps some part of her became complacent without her realizing it. Perhaps, in some corner of her mind, she stopped expecting things to go wrong. 

On one of her trips, she found a rare supply of chocolate among the soldiers food. All she could think about as she packed her bag was how excited her kids would be, once she showed it to them. 

Suddenly, she heard voices. She gasped, freezing in place. Men’s voices, getting closer and closer. For some reason, the soldiers were returning early today. 

Maria began to panic. There was only one door out of the room where she was, and if she left that way, she would surely be seen. But there wasn’t anywhere to hide in the room either, and she didn’t like the idea of trying to fight her way out. 

Heart pounding, she made a snap decision. In her adrenaline-fueled state of mind, running seemed like the better of two bad options. Hastily she grabbed the backpack and ran.

She ran out the door. She ran past the small group of soldiers coming up the path, startling them. She ran faster than she ever had, breathing hard, not looking back even when they shouted. 

She thought she would get away. 

Then, out of nowhere, there was just pain. It hit her suddenly, robbing her of all her breath instantly. She started to fall.

Maria didn’t understand. Everything suddenly seemed to be moving so slowly. Where had this pain come from? And why was there blood on the ground in front of her?

She hit the ground hard, and the backpack slipped from her shoulder. She stretched out a hand, trying to reach it, it was so important, but she couldn’t move. She hurt too much.

A couple pairs of feet entered her field of vision, moving closer, slowly revealing the men that they belonged too. 

She began to understand. One of the soldiers had had a handgun on him, and had taken a shot at her. She was hit, she was the one bleeding. 

She screamed then. She was feeling too much, and could no longer keep it in. Frustration, anger, pain, hate. She couldn’t afford to be here, on the ground, when the children were waiting for her at home.

She couldn’t be here, they needed her, she had to get up, these men were in the way, they ruined everything, she had to go home, SHE COULDN’T BE HERE-

Her vision went black.

 

The army traced the guerillas to their hideout in the little village, eventually. There was a battle, of course, and most of the townspeople fled in terror. 

It was one of the soldiers from the government that found the shack on the edge of town. He knocked on the door, wondering if anyone was home, and found it open. 

Inside he found seven children, all dead. The sight of their bodies perplexed him; what kind of creature could have inflicted such wounds?

He turned to leave, but it was there barring his path, the white bone mask glinting in the dimness of the room. He didn’t even have time to scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'll remember, hollows are drawn to the loved ones from their lives. At first they try to protect them, but eventually they lose themselves and kill their loved ones, like Orihime's brother almost did to her early on in the series. So yes, she killed those kids :'( Next chapter will probably be Ulquiorra. Thanks for reading!


	3. Nothingness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ulquiorra

All men are not equal in life, and all men are not equal in death.

 

Everyone in Italy looked forward to Carnival season. It was a time for parades and parties, for song and dance. It was a time to enjoy life as much as possible, and if you happened to sin a little while doing so...well, you could pray for forgiveness during Lent.

Everyone looked forward to Carnival season. Everyone, except for Carlo della Collina.

He liked certain parts of Carnival. The food was good, and it was the only time of year that the opera players ran their productions. But there were also a lot of parties in Venice this time of year. And when someone wealthy and important threw a party, the Collinas were expected to attend.

The Collina family name had been known and respected in Venice for generations. They were merchants, buying and selling all kinds of goods that were then transported by river and canal throughout all of Italy.

Unfortunately, however, recently business hadn’t been very good. The social scene of Venice’s upper crust was brutally changeable, and Carlo’s father, Giulio was desperate to hold onto their wealthy status.

As a result, tensions were at an all-time high in the Collina household. Giulio, who wasn’t exactly the friendliest man at the best of times, had become standoffish and prone to fits of temper. Carlo and his brother, Luccio, did their bests to live up to Giulio’s expectations, but nothing they did ever seemed to be enough.

The relationship between Carlo and Luccio had suffered as well. The two brothers, only fifteen months apart in age, had been quite close when they were younger. But as they grew older, they grew apart. Carlo’s interests turned towards philosophy and art, whereas Luccio prefered things like fencing and horseback riding.

As the older brother, Carlo was the official heir to his family’s business. But it was no secret that Luccio also desired the position, and so the two of them began competing for Giulio’s attention. They did anything and everything they could think of to please him, and that included going to the parties that Venice’s upper class threw during Carnival.

Carlo hated those parties. He hated having to get dressed up and socialize with people he had little to no interest in. He hated the way that all the girls avoided his gaze, almost as much as he hated how they giggled and whispered when his little brother passed by. He hated the false pleasantries and the forced smiles.

But his father wanted him at those parties, and so he went. Every single time. No one ever seemed to notice that he was uncomfortable, and no one ever seemed to share his feelings, either.

The first grand gala of the season was hosted by the da Ponte family, as usual. They were an old family, and arguably the wealthiest in all of Venice. They liked to show it off, too: they loved throwing lavish parties at their enormous estate, and their family name seemed to adorn half the buildings in the city.

Carlo actually didn’t mind the da Ponte’s parties as much as he did some of the others. In fact, since there were usually so many guests invited, it was easier for him to avoid too much direct attention from the hosts. Once or twice, when he had been out by himself, he’d managed to ditch the party altogether. On those nights he wandered the gardens or the riverside alone, with only the evening stars to bear witness.

Unfortunately, he would probably not be able to sneak away unnoticed tonight. Luccio and his father were also in attendance, and he wouldn’t dare risk it.

The night passed fairly uneventfully at first. While the guests mingled, Carlo stood still and mostly silent in the corner. During dinner, he sat between his father and his brother and tried to appear invisible. After dinner, when the alcohol started circulating, the music started playing, and the guests started dancing, he stood on the sidelines and just watched. It was a routine he’d relived a hundred times before.

Then, unexpectedly, something different happened. Carlo was back in his corner, an untouched glass in his hand, silently critiquing the viol player in the small chamber ensemble. His mind was so far from his surroundings that he almost didn’t notice his father approaching.

“Carlo, there you are,” Giulio said brusquely, as he came closer. “Enjoying yourself, are you?”

“Yes, Father,” Carlo answered.

“Come with me,” Giulio said, hardly paying his son any attention. “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

He turned on his heel and strode away again. Obediently, Carlo followed, sighing inwardly. It wouldn’t be the first time his father had dragged him over to introduce him to some wealthy businessman or other. After a while they all started to look alike, and he never could keep their names straight.

But Giulio didn’t steer him towards any new business acquaintances. Instead, he stopped short in front of Giacomo da Ponte, their host for the evening.

“Signore, I’m sure you remember my eldest, Carlo,” he said without any sort of preamble.

Da Ponte, a fat man with a red face grinned at them. Carlo could tell he had already had quite a bit of wine. “Of course, of course! How have you been keeping, son?”

“Very well, Signore, thank you.”

“Glad to hear it my boy, very glad indeed. Here, while you’re here, allow me to introduce you to my niece! Bianca,” he called, turning behind him to search the nearby crowds. “Bianca, where have you got to?”

A girl in an elaborate blue dress separated herself from a nearby group and approached them. Carlo had never seen her before. He was certain he would have remembered her; she was beautiful, with clear white skin and perfect blonde curls. “Here, Uncle,” she said, her voice just as lovely as her face.

“Ah, there you are!” da Ponte laughed. “Bianca, this is Signore della Collina and his son, Carlo.”

“How do you do, Signori?” Bianca asked, curtsying.

“My niece has been studying abroad for the past three years,” da Ponte informed them. “But she’s here for the season, and I intend to show her all that Venice has to offer a young lady!”

“Where have you been studying?” Carlo asked, attempting to sound polite but merely coming off as awkward.

“France, Signore. Paris.” she smiled at him, immediately making him feel even more out of place. “It’s absolutely gorgeous there, but I certainly am excited to be spending a little time back home in Italy.”

“Carlo, why don’t you show the Signorina around sometime while she’s here?” Giulio suggested. “She would certainly benefit from some company her own age.”

Carlo opened his mouth to attempt to refuse, but da Ponte cut him off. “What a grand idea!” he roared. “Bianca, this is perfect!”

“I’d like that,” she said, smiling at Carlo again. “What do you say, Signore?”

“Um, s-sure,” Carlo stammered.

“Are you free tomorrow? At, say, noon?”

“Yes, Signorina.”

“Wonderful! Then, I shall see you then.” With a last quick smile, Bianca spun around in a whirl of blue satin and blonde hair and vanished back into the party crowds.

The rest of the party proceeded exactly as expected. Carlo went back to watching the dancers, and no one else attempted to talk to him. Sometime after midnight, the festivities finally started winding down and the guests started going their separate ways.

Giulio lead his sons to where their carriage, complete with footman, was waiting in the da Ponte’s driveway.

“Father, do we really have to take the carriage?” Luccio asked. He was a little tipsy, and his hair and clothes seemed slightly disheveled. Carlo almost asked him what he’d been up to, but decided he didn’t really want to know. “It’s such a beautiful night. We can just walk home!”

“Quiet,” Giulio snapped, stepping inside. Luccio sighed but didn’t argue, for which Carlo was grateful.

The boys followed their father into the carriage, and the footman closed the door behind them. Shortly after, there was a slight lurch, and they were moving forward.

“Luccio, I forbid you from speaking in such a stupid manner,” Giulio continued. “Walk home...what a damn ridiculous notion. You would have us share the streets with the dirty commoners and the beggars. Why, next you’ll be suggesting we spend the night at one of those filthy whorehouses, hm?”

“It was merely a joke, Father,” Luccio said quietly, eyes downcast.

Giulio sniffed haughtily. “We are not commoners,” he said. “We are above them. They are nothing but trash before a family such as ours.”

For a moment there was silence in the carriage but for the sound of the horses’ hooves on the cobblestones outside. Carlo looked out the window. They were already almost home; they probably could have walked back just as quickly after all.

“I want you to court da Ponte’s niece,” Giulio said suddenly.

Carlo blinked, surprised. “Bianca? Why?”

“Isn’t it obvious, you imbecile? She comes from a good background, and she’s single. What more do you need?”

Luccio snorted. “Carlo spends all his time inside reading poetry, Father. There’s a reason he’s not exactly popular with the ladies.”

“I hardly know her,” Carlo pointed out, ignoring Luccio’s half-drunken insults. “What if I don’t want to marry her?”

Giulio’s eyes narrowed, and Carlo immediately regretted his question. “You should be grateful, boy. This is a good opportunity for you, and for our family. If I say court the girl, I expect you to do so without question. Am I clear?”

“Yes, Father.”

 

Carlo picked Bianca up the next day at noon, as they had agreed. Her dress and hairstyle weren’t as elaborate as she’d been wearing at the party, but she still looked very pretty nonetheless. Carlo was very nervous at the prospect of spending time alone with her, but he took a deep breath and reminded himself that his father was counting on him.

As it turned out, though, spending time with Bianca wasn’t that hard at all. She was not only good looking, she was also witty, and kind. She smiled at everyone, not just Carlo, and little by little he found himself relaxing.

If he had to marry, he thought, Bianca didn’t seem like a bad choice. At least, he didn’t mind being around her the way he did most people. Maybe, in time, she would understand how he really felt.

They spent hours together, sometimes riding by carriage, sometimes walking. He showed her every important building he could think of, and let her lead him when she saw something that caught her eye.

Early evening began to set in on the riverside, and they stopped a moment on a bench to watch the sun sink lower in the sky.

They were quiet for a moment, but then Bianca spoke up. “Carlo...may I be totally honest with you?” she asked.

“Of course, Bianca.”

“I didn’t actually want to come back to Venice. Don’t get me wrong, you make an excellent tour guide, but I don’t actually like this city much.”

Carlo blinked in surprise. She wasn’t looking at him, and he wasn’t sure how to read her expression. “I thought you came back to Italy for a vacation from your studies,” he said, confused.

“Well, not really. It wasn’t my idea. My parents have been wanting me to come back for a while now...they actually threatened to cut me off if I didn’t at least come visit. So I pack my things and head back to Florence, only to be told that they’re both busy with work, and I need to stay with my Uncle in Venice until things settle down back home.”

She sighed and rested her chin in her hand. “At first I was willing to go along with it, you know? Dressing up and going to parties is fun and all, but only for so long. And all my Uncle’s party guests are just so fake, I can’t stand it. Smiling and drinking wine and pretending that the people in this city aren’t truly unhappy.”

Carlo was really confused now. She was concerned about the commoners? Why would she care about them?

“Anyway, I’ve made up my mind,” Bianca continued. “I don’t care what my parents want. All I want is to go back to my friends at my university in Paris. I’d rather be penniless there than rich and unhappy here.” She smiled at him again. “Thanks for today. You helped me realise what I really wanted. Best wishes, Carlo.”

With that she stood up and walked away without even waiting for a response. Carlo remained on the bench for some time, dumbfounded.

He’d been mistaken to think that he understood her. That they could have spent their lives together. He clasped his hands together tightly, trying to keep them from shaking. This had been his chance, his chance to make his father proud of him, to do something right for once. For a second, there had been a glimmer of hope, but now all of a sudden it had been extinguished, leaving nothing behind.

He took a breath, as deep as he could, and forced himself not to panic. He told himself that he could still fix the situation, if he just explained everything clearly to his father. He told himself not to worry, that there would be another chance.

 

By the time Carlo finally gathered enough of his wits about him to head home, it was late, past dinner time. He was so preoccupied with his thoughts that he almost didn’t notice Luccio waiting for him by the side of the driveway.

“Welcome back, Carlo,” Luccio said, making his brother jump. “How did it go with your little date?”

“That’s none of your business,” Carlo muttered, walking on.

“That bad, huh?” Luccio chuckled a little. “Father won’t be pleased.” Carlo kept walking, trying to ignore him.

“You know something,” Luccio continued casually, “I think it was only a matter of time until you screwed up something major like this. Someone like you can’t be trusted with something this important.”

That stopped Carlo in his tracks. Sure, he and Luccio had their differences, and they’d argued plenty of times before, but Luccio had never insulted him so blatantly before.

“What did you just say to me, Luccio?” he demanded.

“I think you heard me, brother,” Luccio said quietly, stepping forward. The look on his face was deadly serious, half illuminated by moonlight.

“Whatever.” Carlo was starting to get a little freaked out. “I don’t have to listen to you. I’m going to bed.”

He turned to walk away, but Luccio grabbed his arm, gripping tightly.

“Not so fast,” he said. “You see, I’ve been thinking a lot lately, Carlo, and I’ve finally realized something important, so you’re going to listen to me.”

“Let go of me! What’s gotten into you, Luccio?”

“I’ve always wondered why Father wasted his time with you,” Luccio continued, as if he hadn’t heard Carlo at all. “Just because you’re the eldest, you automatically get to inherit the family business, and live a life of comfort here in Venice? If I want to stay, I have to answer to you for the rest of my life? I mean, it should be obvious just by looking that I’m more qualified than you. So why?”

With a huge effort, Carlo finally broke free of Luccio’s hold on him. “You’re crazy,” he yelled, backing up a few paces. “And if you think Father will ever let you get away with this-”

“No, you still don’t understand,” Luccio interrupted. “What I realized was that I won’t ever change Father’s mind. But I don’t have to,” he said, breaking into a smile, “because there is something else I can do.”

Luccio reached into his coat and removed a long, silver dagger. Carlo’s eyes widened in shock, watching the moonlight glint off the blade. He was frozen in place, panicking.

After a moment he managed to snap out of it, and turned to run. But even at his fastest, adrenaline-fueled speed, he was nowhere near as fast as Luccio.

He made it only about four or five steps. All of a sudden there was a sharp, intense pain in his back, right between his shoulder blades. He opened his mouth to scream, but a rush of blood filled his mouth, making him gag.

He tripped and fell forward, landing face-first in the dirt. His instincts were screaming at him to keep running, to get away, to do something, but he couldn’t move.

“Don’t worry, Carlo,” Luccio’s voice said from close behind him. “I’ll do a better job than you ever could. I’ll be the man our family, and this city, needs.”

Carlo’s vision started to go black. All his emotions seemed amplified: anger, fear, hatred.

There was also regret. Profoundly deep regret, that he was going to die without meeting anyone who truly understood him.

And then there was nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow this doesn't really fit the theme of nothingness (which is the aspect Ulquiorra represents as a hollow), but it's the best I could come up with. Not gonna lie, I had some major writer's block trying to get this chapter done. Thanks for your patience, and thanks for reading


	4. Solitude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Starrk

Humans live or die. The world moves on, not caring either way. But there are some who are unwilling to let the world carry on without them. The souls who are unable to move on after death are eventually corrupted by the world they can no longer interact with. Stubbornly, they remain in the world meant for the living, until they can no longer remember what it was like to be human. 

 

The sun had barely begun to emerge on the eastern horizon when Will Bailey was jolted awake by the loud crow of a rooster outside his bedroom window. He groaned, pulling a pillow over his head, trying to block out the sound. He knew he had to get up soon, but maybe he could just stay in bed for few more minutes…

But the rooster kept crowing, and soon his dog Ginger started whining by the foot of his bed. Grumbling, Will sat up, running a hand through his hair. “Ok, ok, I’m up already,” he muttered, yawning.

He got up out of bed and stumbled through the dark house, tugging on a shirt as he went. He waited until he was outside where he could see a little better to put on his old leather boots. Then it was time to start the day.

After scattering a plentiful helping of seeds for the chickens, he moved on to the barn. Waiting for him expectantly inside were four hogs, two cows, and his horse, who snorted at him impatiently. “I’m comin’, Rory, I’m comin’,” Will assured the brown gelding, pulling a bag of oats off the wall. 

By the time he finished feeding the animals in the barn and milking the cows, the sun was almost all the way up. Will frowned; he could already tell it was going to be another hot day, and he still had a lot of work to do in the garden. 

Owning his own farm had turned out to be a lot more laborious than he had thought. But despite all the work, and having to get up at the crack of dawn, and the fact that he had developed a habit of talking to his animals, he was still happier here than anywhere else he’d been. 

 

Around noon, when the heat began to make working nearly unbearable, Will took a break. He put down the garden tools he’d been working with and sat down on the grass to eat the lunch he’d packed. Ginger sat down beside him, panting. 

The landscape surrounding the little farm wasn’t the most picturesque, perhaps. In fact, it was a bit plain. But it was quiet, and Will found it peaceful. There was comfort in the solitude.

Suddenly, Ginger stirred, ears perked up. She stood up and barked once, looking out into the distance at something Will couldn’t quite make out. 

“What is it, girl?” he asked, shading his eyes, peering in the direction she was looking. “What do you see?”

After a moment he saw what had caught his dog’s attention: a figure on horseback, approaching the farm from the direction of the town.

Will also got to his feet, dusting off his hands. He was a little suspicious to see someone coming. No one ever came to visit him, and he wasn’t expecting another delivery from town until next week. For someone to show up now, just when he’d been getting the hang of doing this whole farm thing, felt like a bad omen. 

The person seemed to have spotted him, because the horse turned in his direction. Will squinted, but couldn’t make out any details against the bright sunlight. 

“Hey hey, Willy, that you?!”

Will groaned. Suddenly a lot more was making sense, especially that bad feeling he’d been having. 

“Cain. I guess I should’ve known you’d find me out here.”

The man laughed heartily, his horse finally coming close enough for Will to see him clearly. “Of course, Willy!” he exclaimed happily. “Ya got a minute?”

Will sighed. “...Ok, fine. Fine. C’mon, let’s take this inside.”

 

“It’s, uh, quite the place you’ve got here, Willy,” Cain said, following Will into the house. “You run all this by yourself?”

“Yep, just me and Ginger.”

“Wait, who’s Ginger?”

“My dog, Cain.”

“Oh.” Cain chuckled, sitting down without waiting for an invitation. “Shoulda figured.”

Will rolled his eyes. Cain, full name Gregory McCain, looked exactly the same as the last time Will had seen him, almost two years ago.

“Ya really weren’t kiddin’, huh,” Cain continued absently, looking around. “About this whole isolation thing, I mean.”

“It’s not isolation. I can go to town any time I want.”

“Yeah, you jus’ don’t want to. Ever. I’m not judging you for it, I just didn’t think you’d really go through with it is all.”

Will sighed again. “What do you want, Cain? Why are you here?”

Cain smiled, showing his teeth. “Good to see some things never change, I guess. I got a job for us, Willy.”

“Not interested.”

“Aw, c’mon, don’ be like that! Have I ever steered us wrong before? Hear me out!”

“I said no, Cain!” Will crossed his arms, frowning. “I told you after the last gig that I was done, and I am done. I got out, and now I just want to be left alone. And I had what I wanted, until you showed back up!”

Cain stood back up. “Can you really tell me that this is all ya want?” he asked, gesturing around at the farm. “Willy, we could be partners again. Bailey and McCain, scourge of the West!” He threw his arms in the air, mimicking an explosion. “Ya don’t miss that?”

“Am I supposed to miss camping in fields every night, constantly living on the run from the law? Because I don’t.”

“It’s one little job, Willy. It’s not in that little town up the road, if that’s whatcha were worrying over. It’ll be easy. Besides, ya still owe me one from back in Jackson. I swear, just one job, and then I’ll leave you alone how ever long ya want. Please, Partner? Do it fer me?”

Will put a hand to his face. He had the distinct feeling that if he turned Cain down, the man would keep coming back and bothering him. And he did actually owe Cain one or two favors…

“Fine. One job. But then we’re even, and you let me get back to my life, all right?”

Cain beamed. “Of course I will! Ah, I knew I could count on ya, Willy. Ya always come through for me, Partner!”

“Yeah yeah. Let’s just get through this as quickly as we can. Tell me about this job.”

 

Will and Cain had met as kids, growing up in a small town in the middle of nowhere in Arkansas. Neither of them had really fit in well with the other kids; Will was quiet and unsociable, Cain was laughably big and clumsy. Somehow, they had managed to develop a working relationship between the two of them, and from then on the teasings from the other children their age hadn’t bothered them. 

Will didn’t remember the details of how they’d left Arkansas. Only that it had been fall, and the sound of their horses’ hooves crushing so many fallen leaves underfoot. The rest didn’t really matter anyway. He and Cain had kept on the move after that, travelling from state to territory to state again. 

They’d made a living wherever they could, with no regard whatsoever for the law. They robbed trains with bandanas over their faces. They lay in wait to jump travellers on the highways. They cheated at poker and were almost never caught. And they did it all together. 

But eventually, Will had grown tired of it all. He was very good at his job, but he had never enjoyed it particularly much. So, when Cain came to him saying he’d heard about a job that could set them up for life, Will had taken him up on the opportunity. 

After that final gig he and Cain had gone their separate ways. Will had travelled by himself a bit more and eventually settled down in Texas, where he used his share of the payout to buy his little farm. It had been hard at first, on his own, but the time he’d spent there was the best he could remember. 

And yet, here he was, putting everything he had in jeopardy by throwing in with Cain again. 

Will sighed. “Cain, are we almost there?”

“Not far now, Willy,” Cain answered him tiredly. “O’course, we coulda already been there if you’d agreed to leave last night like I wanted to…”

“I told you, Claire and June would never have forgiven me.”

“And I told you, no grown man names his cows, Willy.”

They spent the rest of the journey in sleepy silence, the sun steadily rising in the eastern sky. Will sulked, thinking of all the time he was wasting, wishing for the whole thing to be over soon. Cain appeared to doze off in his saddle. 

But before too long, they came within view of their destination: the next town over from the one Will lived near. It was a considerably bigger and more prosperous town, likely due to the lumber factory there. Apparently, one of Cain’s contacts had informed him that the local sheriff was out of town for the week. 

Things in the town seemed fairly quiet. They couldn’t have asked for a better day to rob a bank.

“Ya sure you’re ready for this?” Cain murmured to Will as they tied their horses’ reigns securely to a post outside the bank. 

Will nodded. He had been almost surprised how easy it had been to slip back into his old routine. “Let’s just get this over with quickly.”

Cain nodded. Together they turned and pushed open the front doors.

They had learned years ago that trying to conceal their identities was pointless in this kind of situation. So they’d turned it around and started playing up their reputations. They entered the bank boldly, guns at the ready.

“Hands in the air!” Cain yelled, firing a shot into the ceiling. “This is a robbery!”

The few people inside reacted pretty much as expected. Some screamed, one or two took a panicked step backwards, but eventually they all cooperated, raising their hands as Cain had demanded. 

“All y’all, get over in that corner,” Cain demanded. “I’ll get the money, you keep an eye on them,” he added to Will, moving forward. 

Will trained his gun on the hostages. “Don’t move, and no one gets hurt,” he instructed curtly. 

 

For a moment there was silence in the bank, but for the sound of Cain behind the counter grabbing all the cash he could carry. 

Then, suddenly, the door to the bank burst forcefully open and a voice yelled, “halt, in the name of the law!”

Will whipped around. Standing in the doorway was a man wearing a sheriff’s badge, and aiming a pistol right at him. He threw himself to the side, but wasn’t fast enough to dodge the first shot completely. The bullet hit him in the leg, sending him to the floor with a yell of pain.

“Cain!” Will shouted, twisting around. He caught a glimpse of Cain shoving the last of the money into his bag, and then turning to run without a word. 

It only took an instant for Will to understand what was happening. Cain had set this up on purpose. There had never been any informant, and the sheriff had never actually left the town. Cain had merely needed someone to take the fall for him, while he escaped with all the money. 

Will’s partner, the man he’d known and trusted since childhood, had betrayed him.

The second shot caught him in the chest, immediately knocking all the breath from his body. Someone nearby, one of the hostages probably, was screaming. There was blood everywhere, all of it his. 

I just wanted to be left alone, he thought, as the whole world dissolved into dark, silent, cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had a surprisingly tough time trying to write in an American-western style? Oops, oh well. Starrk is one of my fave Espada, and I had fun with this concept of him as a decent person who just wanted to be left alone.


	5. Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Szayel

Those who are abandoned by society in life, in turn abandon their humanity in death. They cling to their regrets, and their hatred, and their resentments, until it consumes them. They are the souls fated to become Hollows.

 

Robbie Barker was bored. He was sitting in a wooden chair by a window, and, as usual, there was nothing to do.

It was a room he’d been in several times before. The room contained only two chairs, and had only one lone window. Through it he could see the setting sun. Did the sun set in the east, or the west? He could never remember. It wasn’t really that important anyway.

He sighed. Bored, bored, bored. He leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair, and rested his chin on his palm. The rough scar tissue on his hand gently scraped at his face.

Outside, he heard footsteps, and then low voices. Robbie sat up a little straighter. He didn’t actually know why he was here, today of all days. Maybe he was about to find out.

The door opened and a young man entered. “Thank you, officer,” he was saying over his shoulder. Robbie noted his plain black clothing, and the cross on a gold chain around his neck.

“Oh, hell,” he grumbled, scowling.

The stranger started. He looked very nervous; Robbie could see him sweating.

“Um, Robert Barker, I presume?” he asked. “My name is Jude Anderson.” He extended a hand.

“Go away, churchman. I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“Oh,” Jude said, his hand falling back to his side. “I just thought, considering what’s going to happen to you tomorrow, you might want to...talk.”

“You thought wrong. I’m not going to confess to you. I don’t believe in your god, anyway.”

“I see.” Jude sat down carefully in the other chair. “Who’s god do you believe in, Mr. Barker?”

“No one’s. Religions are just grand lies that societies use to fool themselves.” Robbie frowned. “I thought I told you I don’t want to talk to you.”

Jude shrugged, a little nervous smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “If you say you don’t want to confess, that’s fine. But, as someone who’s life is rather heavily invested in religion, I would like to hear more of your opinion on the subject. Come now, Mr. Barker,” he added after a moment of uncooperative silence, “what harm could it do to talk for a while?”

“Alright, preacherman, I’ll bite. Let’s talk for a bit.” Robbie crossed his arms. “You think I’m a sinner, don’t you? That I deserve to be here?”

“I think that’s a fair assumption, considering the laws you’ve broken, and the crimes you’ve committed.”

“Well, if there really was some kind of all-powerful god out there, they could have stopped all this before it started. I used to pray, you know. I prayed to any and every deity I could think of. None of them helped me. So I had to help myself.”

“Am I correct in assuming, Mr. Barker, that you consider yourself innocent? Even, perhaps, a victim?”

“Of course not.”

“Then, you admit your guilt.”

“‘Guilt’ is not the word for it. I don’t consider my actions to be crimes. Your society might, and your religion might, but I don’t.”

“Interesting.” Jude leaned slightly forward in his chair. “Then, you don’t regret any of it?”

“I regret being caught and locked up. I still had so much to do… you know, the only reason that they try to tell you what’s right and what’s wrong is because they’re afraid. They don’t want you to find out.”

“Find out what?”

Robbie grinned. “That it’s exhilarating,” he whispered.

Jude, who had momentarily begun to seem more comfortable with the situation, began to sweat again. “O-oh.”

“You probably believe them, too. Most people do.” Robbie closed his eyes, breathing deeply. “Have you ever had it bad, chuchman? I mean, really really bad?”

“Um, no, I can’t say that I have. I’ve been very fortunate in my life.”

“Figures. That’s why you believe their crap.”

Robbie lapsed into silence, eyes still closed. Jude waited for him to continue. “You did?” he prompted quietly, after a few moments of silence.

“Yeah,” Robbie said, opening his eyes once again. “But you don’t want to hear about that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s boring. You don’t care about all that.”

“I’d like to know.”

Robbie paused for a moment, one eyebrow raised, considering. Then he shrugged. “Alright. Fine.”

Jude blinked. “Wha-really? It’s that easy?”

“Well, tonight is my last chance to tell my story, after all. You sure you can handle it?”

“Yes, I’m sure. Tell me.”

“Have it your way then. Let’s see… both my parents died when I was in my first year of junior high, and I moved away out of state to live with my aunt. I was the new kid at a small, private school, so there was basically no way I wasn’t going to stand out. But on top of being new, I was also very different. I liked books and studying, and I was a bit antisocial. I used to wear these big, square glasses, too… I must have looked like such a dork…”

“So, you were bullied? Is that it?”

“Once again, not exactly the right word. ‘Bully’ implies that I was teased, or had my lunch money taken, or my property vandalized. No. This was more than that. This was deliberate and enduring psychological warfare. Maybe ‘torture’ is closer to the concept I’m trying to express here.

“Most of the boys in my class were in on it. Nobody ever stuck up for me, and my aunt didn’t believe me when I told her about it. Sometimes they physically beat me, but more often they just cornered me and taunted me. Said all kinds of things to get inside my head, make me feel useless. After a while I started believing them.”

Robbie’s eyes held Jude’s unwaveringly. “That was when I prayed. Because no one else was there for me. Society’s rules demanded that I tough it out, and deal with it myself, only calling on God for aid. But nothing ever changed. Nothing got better. It got worse and worse, until one day they thought it would be fun to tie me up and take turns burning me with matches.”

Jude noticed Robbie unconsciously rubbing the scars along one of his arms. “After that, my aunt was pretty much forced to admit that something was going down. She pulled me out of school. We moved away again not long after.”

“But you came back,” Jude pointed out.

“Yeah. Of course I came back. Stuff like that, it doesn’t just go away, you know? Time and distance help, but they’re not enough. I had to confront them.

“The first one, I killed by accident. He didn’t like the idea of me coming back, after all those years, and he threatened to get violent with me. I put out my hands to defend myself, and pushed him off a bridge.”

Robbie chuckled, an unsettling glint in his eyes. “At first, I was terrified. Because society always teaches you, killing is bad and wrong. But...once he was dead, he couldn’t bother me anymore! I had stood up for myself, and I hadn’t been as useless as they’d always told me I was. It was a good feeling.”

“So, the killings after that were intentional?”

“Oh yeah. I finally broke free of the lies I’d been tangled up in since, well, the beginning. I was enlightened, haha.”

“You’re saying...that you enjoyed it?”

“What I enjoyed was the sense of empowerment that came after. The killings themselves were a bit tedious, truth be told. I had to get creative after a while.”

Jude shuddered and crossed himself. Robbie grinned. “So, what are the headlines like out there?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Surely there are at least a few newspapers out there that picked up on my story. What are they saying? Do you know?”

“Er, yes,” Jude said tentatively. “Most people think… well, that you’re insane, Mr. Barker.”

Robbie laughed. “Of course they do. But, really, madness is just a word. It’s another lie. I’m sure you believe it, but that’s fine. I don’t care.”

“Do you want me to share with them what you’ve told me here tonight?”

“Do whatever you want. I don’t think it’ll make a difference, seeing as most people have already made up their minds about me.”

He lapsed back into silence, seemingly distracted by some scene illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun beyond the window.

Jude hesitated for a moment, then stood up. “I believe it’s about time for me to get going, Mr. Barker. Thank you for your time. I don’t know if it’s any consolation but...I’ll pray for you.”

Robbie looked back around at him. Jude found his expression hard to read.

“Thanks, Jude Anderson. I don’t really see what the point is, but the sentiment is appreciated. I guess for a priest, you’re not so bad.”

Jude blinked, surprised that Robbie had remembered his name. “Goodnight, Mr. Barker,” he said quietly. Then he turned and left the room.

In the hallway outside stood a prison guard, keeping watch. His badge identified him as Officer O’Malley.

“That was incredible,” he said earnestly, after the door had closed behind Jude. “We’ve had so many psychiatrists in there to see him, and he’s never said a word about himself. How did you do that?”

“Honestly, Officer, I’m just as surprised as you are,” Jude said, wiping his forehead. “I got a lot more than I bargained for in there.”

“Creepy son of a bitch, isn’t he? No need to worry, though. It’ll all be over soon.”

“Yes,” Jude said absently. “I suppose it will. You know, Officer, I like to believe that everyone can be saved, but him...I just don’t know.”

“That man is not one of God’s,” O’Malley said sagely. “He belongs to the devil. He’s beyond any saving. If I were you, I wouldn’t worry about him.”

“I guess you’re right.” Jude took a deep breath, composing his thoughts. “Well, I’ll be off, then. Goodnight, Officer.”

 

Robbie Barker, convicted on the charges of seventeen intentional murders, was executed by electric chair on June 22, 1928. He died screaming.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Been a while since I updated this fic. If you waited for it, I'm sorry all I have for you is this crazy pink-haired serial killer. (By the way, there was never a chance to say so in the chapter, but he was in his early twenties when he was caught. Too young to have served in WWI, methinks). Thanks for reading!


	6. Despair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nnoitra

Humans are shaped by their beliefs. They live and die by beliefs that, in their minds, could never be untrue. They are guided by their faith in the invisible, the impossible, and the unknowable. But these beliefs don’t always lead them where they want to go, and almost never deliver them to the deaths they feel they deserve.

 

A fresh coat of snow crunched beneath Iric Olsson’s boots as he trudged up the steep hill. His breath was visible in front of his face, puffing out in little, foggy clouds of temporary warmth. The weak, early morning light seemed to drain everything of it’s color, leaving only shades of grey and white.

He made it to the top of the hill and set down his pack gratefully. Then he turned, surveying the scene spread out below him; the land that, as yet, had no name.

There was their camp, the tents arrayed in a circle, the horses tied in the center, giving them some protection from the cold wind. There were his comrades, just beginning to wake, shuffling from their tents and moving closer to the fire. A little further on there were trees, a sparse and widely spaced wood. But beyond that, only white snow, as far as he could see.

Below, someone called his name, waved their arms. He raised a hand, indicating that he had seen, and bent to pick up his pack before starting down the hill.

Ivan, the youngest and most excitable of their party, ran out to greet him, babbling excitedly the whole time. “You’re back, Iric! How did it go? Did you find anything interesting?”

“Nothing worth mentioning, Ivan.”

“Ivan, leave him alone!” Olaf called from over by the fire. “Let the man breathe, for the gods’ sakes.”

Ivan immediately backed away, and Iric moved in closer to the fire. He sat down, shrugging out of his pack again and warming his hands near the flames. He was tired. He wasn’t as young as he’d once been, and he’d never much enjoyed adventuring, anyway.

Still, he had to admit, there was something of a thrill to it. About watching the sunrise from an unknown, unpopulated land.

One of the others passed him a chunk of bread, which he accepted with a word of thanks. Olaf watched him, waiting until he’d had a few minutes to warm up and to eat before pressing for information.

“The rituals?” he asked, watching Iric’s face closely.

“They have been completed without incident,” Iric answered. His companions visibly relaxed at his words. “I have not seen even the slightest of ill omens since we arrived. Surely, Odin himself is pleased with our journey, and has blessed us, and our mission to claim this new land.”

Olaf nodded. “This is welcome news,” he said. “Men, make ready to move camp; today we move further inland, and see what lies on the other side of the wood.”

The men grouped around the fire nodded and eagerly began to stand up, to head back to their tents and pack up.

“Ivan, stay with Iric,” Olaf added, stopping the youngster before he could dash away. “You are to help him in whatever way you can, understood? Do as he tells you.”

Ivan puffed his chest out and planted his hands on his hips. “Yes sir, you can count on me!”

“That’s the spirit,” Olaf said, chuckling. “Keep up the good work, boy, and we make a proper Viking out of you yet.” He turned and walked away, his long, fur-lined cloak rippling behind him.

“What do you need me to do, Iric?”

“Nothing right now, Ivan. But I will need some help later, with my horse. I don’t see as well as I used to, you know.”

Ivan cocked his head to the side. “If you don’t mind my asking...what _did_ happen to your eye?”

“Hmm.” Iric absentmindedly brushed aside some of his long hair, touching the black eyepatch where his left eye had once been. “I gave it up. Just like Odin gave his eye. I hoped it would bring me wisdom and clarity of thought, like it did him.”

“Did it?”

Iric smiled, swallowing the last of his bread. “No mortal man can hope to be wise all the time, Ivan. No, it serves me mostly as a reminder. To be humble before the gods, always.”

“I think you’re very wise, Iric.”

“Thank you, Ivan. Now, let’s get ready to leave, yes? I’m sure you’re excited to get going.”

“Yes!” Ivan jumped happily to his feet, scooping up Iric’s pack. “I’ll go ahead and get started with the horses!”

Iric reached up again, touched his eyepatch again. It still hurt, sometimes, especially when the weather was at its coldest. Somehow, the pain felt _good_ to him. It felt right. But he didn’t tell anyone that.

He kicked some snow onto the fire, quickly snuffing it out, and then set off after Ivan. It seemed that they would have a long day of exploring ahead of them.

 

Mounted on horseback, the viking party made their way through the trees, towards the unknown terrain on the other side. It was a process most of them, including Iric, were well accustomed to.

The further they went, the more the landscape changed; soon the horses’ hooves were clattering on rocks, hidden just underneath the snow. The ground rose and fell in a series of low hills, and they even passed by a couple of yawning cave mouths.

The light waned early out here, fading in and out through the cover of the trees. Slowly, the familiar sounds of typical woodland creatures died away, and was replaced with the eerie quiet of evening.

“We won’t go much further,” Olaf told them. “If we can, I want to set up camp outside this forest, or at least in a clearing or something. Look sharp, all of you, and stay together.”

Ahead of Iric, Ivan twisted in his seat, an apprehensive look on his face. “Iric, will we be safe out here tonight?”

“Once we set a fire, we’ll be fine. Nothing will dare come to close to us then. Don’t look so down, Ivan, I thought you were excited for this.”

“Well, I am excited, but….wait. Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Iric cocked his head, listening. “Ivan, I don’t-” he broke off, his head snapping to one side as a distant sound reached his ears.

“Wolves!” he called. The other vikings immediately pulled on their reigns, reaching for weapons, looking around as if to spot the beasts in the gathering dark. They looked worried.

“What do we do, Olaf?” Ivan yelled. He seemed to be on the edge of panic.

After a moment of quick thinking, Olaf pointed, ahead. “We’ll try to avoid them, outrun them. We’ll get out of the trees and light a fire, and then we’ll be safe. Let’s go! Stay together!”

He urged his horse to speed, and the rest followed suit. After a few moments, the howling of the pack became easily audible around them, seeming to come from every side. They rode as hard as they could, but there was only so fast their horses could go in the dimness and around the trees.

Just when Iric began to think that they were out of danger, the first wolf leapt at them, seemingly from nowhere.

It was fast, a snarling blur of grey fur and teeth. It sank it’s claws into one of the horse’s flanks, causing the animal to rear back in pain and confusion. The other horses began to panic, breaking away from each other and running pell-mell through the trees, their riders helpless to direct them.

Iric bent low, gripping the reins for dear life. Once, a wolf launched itself out of the darkness and towards his horse, but he lashed out with his foot, his boot connecting with the wolf’s snout. 

They broke through the treeline suddenly. It happened without warning; one moment they were dodging branches and trunks, the next the horses were galloping across open space, automatically drifting closer together.

Iric breathed a shuddering sigh of relief. Now that there weren’t any obstacles, the horses would easily outrun the wolves. For the moment, at least, they were safe.

After a while, when they were sure that there were no wolves following them, Olaf called a halt. They reined in their horses, which was easy considering how tired the animals were. With true Viking spirit, the men immediately dismounted and began preparing to set up camp.

Shakily, Iric began to climb down from his saddle. He wasn’t a warrior. He had no idea what part of putting yourself in danger all the time was so attractive to some people. Or why on earth anyone would romanticize the idea of dying in combat. People like…

“Where’s Ivan?” Olaf asked.

Iric looked around, but he didn’t see the young man anywhere. Now that he thought about it, he hadn’t seen Ivan for a while now.

“His horse is here,” one of the others said, pointing. “But he’s not anywhere around here.”

“I saw a wolf go after his horse back there,” another added. “He must have been thrown from the saddle.”

Olaf’s face darkened. “If that is the case, he is dead already.”

Iric stood speechless. Ivan, left behind and eaten by wolves? That was unthinkable. He was just a child.

“May Hel watch over his soul,” he whispered, raising his hands in prayer.

Olaf glanced at Iric, then away again. For a moment he was silent, thinking, but then he turned back to Iric, frowning.

“I thought you said that our journey was blessed,” he said accusingly.

Iric blinked. “I did. That’s what I believed. There were no signs to the contrary, not even mere hours ago.”

“I do not believe that could possibly be true,” Olaf growled. “A wolf attack can only point to one thing; Odin is angry with us. This was _punishment_ for something. It doesn’t take a priest to figure that out.”

The men nodded, murmuring in agreement with their leader. Iric definitely didn’t like where this was going.

“No,” he said, “that’s not possible. We’ve done everything to make sure not to anger the gods. We’ve done nothing wrong! I would have known!”

“Maybe you did know,” one of the men spoke up, “and just didn’t tell us.”

“That’s right, you’ve been against this journey from the beginning, haven’t you?”

“Have you betrayed us, Iric?”

“No!” Iric put his hands up as Olaf took a step closer to him. “I would never do that! Olaf, please, just listen to me-”

“Men,” Olaf asked, his tone deadly cold, “do you know how to appease an angry god?”

“A sacrifice!”

“That’s right. Someone fetch a rope, so that we may hang this wretched cur.”

Iric’s breath cut short in his throat. “No!” he yelled, turning around, making ready to run. But the Vikings had closed in around him, and one reached out to restrain him.

He screamed and protested, but no one listened to him. Olaf grimmly fashioned a noose and slipped it over his head.

Iric struggled, but he was no match against the other’s strength. The empty socket where his left eye had been was throbbing.

Iric knew then that it wasn’t Olaf’s journey that had been forsaken. It was him. His gods had turned their backs on him, and left him to die an unhonorable death. 

It made him _furious_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got halfway through this before realizing that it doesn't make sense for them to have horses...and then I didn't want to rewrite it all...
> 
> The end to this one was pretty sudden, huh? I kinda like the idea that Nnoitra the Espada is the complete opposite of the man he was in life, and I felt that the best catalyst for that change would be a quick, unexpected death that he felt was unjustified. Thanks for reading!


	7. Rage, Intoxication, Senescence, and Greed

Hey guys, this is the author speaking. I'm afraid I have some bad news. I know there were actually some people waiting for me to write a chapter for the remaining Espada, but the thing is...I have absolutely zero motivation to do so. Writing these stories, which are by necessity stories of death and violence, makes me sad. It’s become like work, instead of something I do for fun, so I’m just not going to finish them. I’m sorry : ( 

That being said, I do have some thoughts about the four that I’m not going to publish, so I’ll just leave them here for whoever cares enough to read them.

**Yammy:** The son of American immigrants in a not-so-great part of Detroit in the 50′s or 60′s. Gets involved with a local gang pretty young, and quickly finds out that it suits him well. He’s just big enough to be intimidating, just skilled enough to pull off most small-time crimes without getting caught. It’s a pretty easy living. Until one day, he says too much, and accidentally gets himself into a situation he wasn’t prepared for. I’ll leave it up to your interpretation how that results in his death. Personally, I would bet money that he would have tried to fight armed cops with his bare hands if presented with the opportunity.

**Zommari:** An African slave, taken from his homeland and sold in the French Colonies in the Caribbean. Fortunately, he ended up in a pretty good house, with a master that was kind to him. His master even promised to free him one day, and give him his very own French name. But his master died before that happened, and he was resold to a new master. A cruel man who treated slaves like cheap, replaceable property. The man who eventually becomes Zommari was killed by his second master for attempting to stand up to him, and to protect some of his fellow slaves.

**Barragan:** I haven’t done much research on this topic, but I’m pretty sure that, at some point, there were nomadic tribes in parts of Europe? Before the establishment of the really powerful countries, probably??? Barragan would have been a part of something like that. Somewhere cold, somewhere where food was kinda scarce, and violent altercations over territories or resources with other tribes was common. Actually, I kinda think he would have been a leader of one of these tribes, a battle-scarred and age-wizened old man. Until one day he made the wrong choice, trusted the wrong person’s word, and it resulted in a bloody end for his people.

**Aaroniero:** Actually used to be two separate souls. One was a man, a monk who dedicated his life to his god, and one was a child, an orphan taken in by the church. The man spent so long trying to get the child to see what the way he saw, to believe what he believed. And, eventually, it started to work. So when the angry villagers came with their accusations of fraud and their burning torches, the child asked the man if it was god’s will. The man didn’t know what to say. He felt abandoned by his god, and the rest of the world too. All he could do was hold the child close while the flames around them spread.

**Additional Thoughts:** I kinda headcanon that Yammy and Halibel would rise through the ranks of the hollows really quickly, which is why their respective human personas lived much more recently to our timeline. Barragan and Ulquiorra, who strike me more as the kind to fight only once they’re attacked, would take a lot longer, which is why they lived so long ago. The same is true of Starrk, really, but he’s so stupidly strong that everyone wanted a chance to prove themselves against him, so he was fighting very often in Las Noches, poor guy. 

Once again: I’m really sorry to be cutting this fic short. Thank you for reading this anyway.


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